Page 47 of Libby's London Merchant
“Indeed, no,” Nez murmured. “I didn’t mean to sound so flippant. I must remind myself not to speak until I think.”
The doctor seemed to come out of himself then. He touched the duke’s arm. “It is a tendency we all have, lad, that propensity to speak where we should not. I didn’t mean to trouble you with my woes. No one forced me to go into medicine.’’ He laughed then, a rueful laugh with little humor in it. “Indeed, it was quite the opposite.”
The doctor grew more expansive and his mood seemed to lighten as he talked. The duke was wise enough to be silent and give Anthony Cook free rein of the conversation.
“Father still does not understand why I wanted to be a doctor. I can’t tell you how many times he said, ‘But you are a gentleman’s son,’ until I wanted to crack his head.” The doctor stood still and took the duke by the arm. “I am certain you, of all people, must understand. There is little value in doing nothing, is there?”
“None at all,” agreed the duke, hoping that he sounded convincing.
“I mean, you understand the value of work—you, a purveyor of sweets,” said the doctor, warming to his subject, enthusiasm evident in his eyes again. He laughed at his own earnest tones and shook his head. “I suppose some of us are not meant for a life of leisure, eh?”
I shall be smitten on the spot by a just God if I continue prevaricating, thought the duke as he laughed along with the doctor.
They walked along in companionable silence, the horse nudging his master until the doctor gave the animal a slap on the flank and sent him home. Cook looked at the duke then, as if seeing him for the first time.
“See here, sir, should you be out jauntering along? I must admit, however, that you do seem cheerful for one who must have his budget of aches and pains. How are you feeling?”
“Quite fine, thank you.”
“ ‘Quite fine,’ and nothing more? Sir, you appear to have a gleam in your eye,” teased the doctor, whose own eyes were red with late night, badly drawing fireplaces in crofters’ cottages, and the general anxiety of his calling.
“Well, yes, I suppose I do,” replied the duke, gratified, flattered even that his love showed on his face. Perhaps with this guileless man he could try the waters now, test out this great, remarkable truth he had learned, and see how it flew with Dr. Anthony Cook. The man had a right to know.
“Sir, I am in love. I have discovered that I cannot live without Miss Libby Ames close by.”
If he expected something more than raised eyebrows and silence from Dr. Cook, he was disappointed. News of this import demanded herald angels at least, or so Benedict reasoned. But Dr. Cook merely looked thoughtful, even a trifle down- pin, truth to tell.
“You are certain?” the doctor asked at last when the gates to his own estate came into view.
“Nevermore certain of anything,” Nez replied stoutly. “Sir, why do you look at me like that?”
He could not have described the look, not even under oath, that Dr. Cook fixed on him then. It was as though someone had struck the portly physician a sound blow between the shoulder blades and he was trying to regain his breath without appearing too startled. Where his expression was habitually kindly, avuncular even, it was now desperate, as if the man longed for breath and saw no hope of getting any. It was the look of a drowning man on a sunny road in the middle of Kent.
“Are you well, sir?” Nez asked in surprise, putting his arm around Dr. Cook.
As quickly as the curious look had come, it was gone. Dr. Cook straightened himself around, managed a little chuckle, and smiled. “I am quite well, thank you.” He hesitated and then plunged ahead. “Sir, how do you think the Ames family will regard your suit?”
Benedict laughed out loud, his head thrown back, a wonderful laugh that he had not attempted in over a year. “Oh, Dr. Cook! There is more to me than meets the eye.”
The doctor nodded and settled his hat more firmly upon his head. “So we suspected,” he murmured.
It was the duke’s turn for surprise. Good God, did Libby know? And had she said nothing?
But the doctor was still speaking. “She rather suspected that you were a partner in the firm.”
The duke nodded, relieved to find his secret still his own.
He would tell Libby when the time was right, when he could smooth it over and not risk her sudden disgust at his dissembling. “I am that and more,” he replied quixotically.
They walked a little farther in silence, each man absorbed in his own thoughts. If the doctor was a little slower, if he seemed more deeply involved in his own private conjectures, the duke could only put it down to Anthony Cook’s all-night exertions.
Benedict owned to a small twinge of conscience. He knew the doctor loved Libby; that was obvious for all to see, except to the doctor himself. He was as clear as water. The duke gave himself a mental shrug. Libby had assured him that such a notion on the doctor’s part was ridiculous.
He looked sideways at the doctor. The notion was far from ridiculous. A man would have to be chipped from stone or carved of wood not to be drawn to Libby Ames, of this Nez had no doubt. But did Libby Ames return the doctor’s feelings? Never. She had even laughed at Anthony Cook behind his back and told the London merchant in that artless way of hers that she and the doctor would never suit.
And so he would leave the matter. The duke looked up then from his own silent contemplation of the road and turned around. Both of them, deep in their personal musings, had continued some distance beyond the gates of the doctor’s estate.
Nez laughed softly and put his hand on the doctor’s arm to stop him. To the duke’s amazement, Anthony Cook tensed and made a fist, as if he were about to turn on him. The duke drew back, startled, and the two men stared at each other.
